


faith without works

by CopperCaravan



Series: Fallout Prompt Fills [5]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Codename: Tens, Gen, The Institute - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 03:04:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7388023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperCaravan/pseuds/CopperCaravan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>fill for a tumblr prompt: "I believe in you."<br/>Tens finally makes it to the Institute, but she doesn't adjust well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	faith without works

**Author's Note:**

> First off, if you haven't read about Tens before, it's important to know that her backstory is canon-divergent. Rather than a lawyer/civilian/housewife, she was Black Ops/decommissioned and made civilian/accidental wife-and-mother.  
> Second, and more important, note that there are themes of self-harm, mild suicidal ideation, ptsd, and panic attacks to follow.

The airport is what had done it, really. When everything had started going wrong, when there had been panic and running and court trials and incarceration—when they’d been found out and torn apart, it had all seemed so unreal. She supposed, afterward, that it was because they were still all together, for the most part. It wasn’t until she was dropped off at an airport, bound for Massachusetts, that she realized she was alone. And that she was always going to be alone.

The airport had been too bright, too full of people, too loud. Crowds carried her away; strangers brushed up against her. The world was too big for her to find a place but too small for her to breathe. She sat on a bench by the check in counters and counted her breaths while she memorized her new name. _Nora Smith. Nora Smith. Ten—Nora Smith._

The Institute is like that airport. It is crowded and busy and loud and bright and she’s been set loose to explore, given no end-goal, and she is—despite _everything_ —alone again.

She’d known, of course, that she’d be going in alone—she’d stood there on that platform watching Deacon try to hold his face in a confident smile ( _one last lie,_ she’d thought, _for me, just in case_ ). She’d known she’d be alone here but she’d never expected to feel this particular feeling again.

And she’d known, of course, that there were synths here. That was the only reason the Railroad was helping her, after all. And she’d spoken to Glory, spoken to Nick, spoken to H2. She has tried to prepare herself for this, but now that she’s here, she realizes it was a futile effort.

She can’t save herself—she never could—so how can she possibly save any of them?

How can she save her son from what he’s done?

“Now, you be sure to report _every_ symptom.”

She turns around, realizes she’s wandered into a medical wing, and watches a man in a lab coat prepare an injection for his patient. His patient... looks so familiar.

“We’re expecting this is going to cause some side effects,” the doctor says. “You’ll need to be thorough in your report.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Tens sinks into the nearest chair; she feels dizzy. He looks like one of her old teammates. That’s what it is. He looks like Seven. Not _quite,_ not enough for her to think they’ve—it isn’t Seven. She _knows_ it isn’t them. They never kept their hair parted that way, the man’s frame is a just a bit too large, the skin lacks their coating of freckles. Despite that, he looks like Seven—wears it around his eyes and in the way he holds his hands—and she’s somewhere between euphoria and panic.

“And you’re still required to do your regular duties,” the doctor continues, pressing the syringe to the man’s arm.

The man flinches—Tens flinches with him, can’t stop her hand lifting from her thigh and reaching toward him ( _I’m right here; it’s alright, we’re here together_ )—and he says “The injection itself is very painful, Doctor. A burning sensation at the point of contact and a general heaviness in my arm.”

“That’s to be expected,” the doctor says. “It should subside in a few hours. You may also experience dizziness so be careful not to break anything while you’re working.”

“I understand, Doctor.” He pauses. Tens has always been horrible at reading people, at understanding them if they aren’t very blunt with her, but she remembers Seven wearing that look and even though this man is _not_ them, she knows that expression. He is afraid. “Will it hurt?”

The doctor doesn’t look up from the clipboard in his hand, just flips a page and says “There will be moderate pain, yes. It shouldn’t impact your work, however.”

For the longest time, Seven had managed to avoid being shot. They didn’t have a front-line type of job, so it was no wonder they had the least injuries out of everyone. But one day, Seven _was_ shot. Got caught in a hallway and took one in the abdomen. And later, when Tens was about to pull out the bullet— _broken, three pieces, need you to be very still, you guys better hold them down_ —Seven had looked at her like that. “This is going to hurt like hell, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she’d said. “I’m sorry.”

“Move your arm,” the doctor demands. “Make a fist, then flex your fingers for me.”

The man bends his elbow, makes a loose fist, and he grimaces while he does so.

She doesn’t mean to speak. Hell, she _never_ means to speak. “Can’t you give him something for the pain?”

They both look at her like they’d not even seen her there—absurd given that the room is open on two sides and people are walking back and forth through it on their way to the cafeteria.

“We need accurate data on any complications the medicine causes,” the doctor says—calm, patient, like he’s talking to a child. Or to an idiot. He must know who she is. _Everyone_ seems to know who she is, if not by Father’s announcements, then certainly by her filthy attire, certainly by the dirt and scars on her body, certainly by the smell of sweat and blood and terror.

“But you can’t just...” She trails off, isn’t sure what it is she’s trying to say. The room suddenly seems so small and finding the words is getting hard again. She needs Hancock; he’d know what she—but god, and bring him _here_? No.

“Is there anything I can do for you, ma’am?” The man begins to rise from his seat, begins to move toward her, but he stumbles and leans back against the chair he’s just vacated. “Dizziness,” he reports to the doctor, and then, to her, “I apologize, ma’am. I will assist you as soon as I am able.”

“What? No, I don’t—I don’t need anything, I just came to... I only...” _Goddammit._ She presses her hands to her face and puts all her weight into her feet. She knows the doctor is looking at her strangely, but she doesn’t care. She needs to feel the floor. She needs to be real, or to remember that she is. This room is so white, so full of air. She feels like she’s floating away and there’s nobody here to put their hands on her arms and say “Hey. You’re right here. With me. You’re here and we’re ok.”

“You need to give him something else,” she says. “That can’t be the only medicine for whatever he has. Or give him something to make it easier, so he doesn’t—so it’s not so hard. They need—he needs something else. You can’t—”

“Ah, I understand,” the doctor says. He shifts his glasses down his nose and looks at her like he’s only now able to see her at all. “You needn’t worry about that. This isn’t a human. I know it must be difficult for you, trying to tell them apart, but you see the white clothes? Those are for synths. It’s just a Gen 3. We’ve recruited it for medical testing.”

She shifts onto the balls of her feet and presses down even harder. _He isn’t Seven. Seven isn’t here. Seven is dead. Seven is safe. They’re all safe now. They are dead and they are not here._ But it isn’t working. She’s going to drift away. And this doctor doesn’t hear her, or he doesn’t understand her. She’s doing it wrong again. “But that’s hurting!”

He misunderstands. She’s said it wrong. “Oh! I apologize; I didn’t realize you were here for medical—”

“No!” She’s yelling. She knows she’s yelling even though everything sounds like rushing water. Two women right outside stop and look at her. The doctor watches her, careful, wary, like she’s a feral animal. He tips his head toward the synth-man and she knows what that means: _be on guard, be ready, restrain her._ “You’re just hurting him on purpose?”

When did she get out of her chair? When did she move across the room? When did she get so close to this doctor—close enough that she can see the smudge on his glasses and the mole beside his right eye and feel the shift of his coat as he tries to take a step back from her? When did she start crying?

“Ma’am,” the man—the synth—the man—says from behind her. “Please remain calm.”

But she’s anything but calm. She’s floating away and she can’t feel her fingers flicking the safety switch on her pistol, though she sees it rise to eye level, watches the doctor through the sights. Her body is buzzing and her breath is catching and she knows the tears are there for all to see. But more than that—more than any of that, she is _angry_. “You can’t just _use_ people like this! Just because you made us doesn’t mean you can use us like this! We're _people_! We never asked—”

No, that’s wrong. This isn’t... This is the Institute. The man behind her is not Seven. _Seven is dead. Seven is safe. They are all dead. I am in the Institute. I am..._

_I am..._

_I..._

“Give him something else! You can’t just hurt him because you think— You can’t— You have to stop!”

And just like that, her pistol disappears from her sight. She hears it hit the floor, registers her arms held gently but firmly behind her back. “Ma’am,” the synth-man says. “I do not wish to cause you injury. Please remain calm.”

She doesn’t fight, doesn’t move at all. Just watches the doctor shoo away curious bystanders, come to watch the feral wastelander, Father’s Mother, the woman from before. Nothing feels real, but it all feels so, so wrong.

“I’m sorry,” she tells the synth-man, willing the words out through hiccuping sobs. “I’m sorry. I—I’m so sorry. I—”

She doesn’t usually make it to crying—there’s always something to stop things from moving so fast, so far. There was pricking her hands with her sewing needles when Shaun was born. There was burning her arm with her cigarettes when she left the Vault. There was a syringe full of psycho to keep her from feeling _anything_ else. There was Deacon or Hancock or Valentine or MacCready— _somebody_ —telling her “You’re here. You’re with me. We’re okay.” But she’s in the Institute now. And she’s alone.

“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

She feels the grip on her wrists loosen, only slightly. “I will take you to Father,” the synth-man says.

\---

Father— _Shaun,_ she corrects herself—has her sit on his couch while the synth-man brings her water.

“Thank you,” she says, memorizing the feeling of the cup in her hands—the slick of the clean glass, the weight of it, the coolness. _It’s real. It’s real, it’s real, it’s real, I’m real._

The synth-man nods and leaves and she just sits there on the couch, waiting for Fa—for Shaun to speak to her.

“Are you feeling better?”

She wonders what he knows, what the Institute has access to. Are there records? Is her real name locked up somewhere, kept safe by the government? Did the transcripts of her trial make it through the bombs? Does Shaun know who she is? What she did? Who they made her?

Does Shaun know what Seven looked like the day she pulled a bullet from their stomach?

She just nods and he seems satisfied enough with that.

“Good,” he says. “This must be hard for you, adjusting. Especially considering all you’ve been through on the surface.”

She’d never put much thought into what it would be like when Shaun grew up. She’d never agonized over whether or not she’d tell him any sort of truth. _Mommy used to murder people. Mommy used to carry a pill in her pocket so that she could kill herself if she ever got caught. Mommy has only had four friends in her whole life and she can never see them again. Mommy used to spend weeks locked in a tiny, dark room when she was bad. Mommy keeps three guns hidden in the house; don’t tell Daddy. Mommy never wanted to be a mommy and she isn’t very good at it._

“The doctor says you use them for medical testing. Like rats.”

“Much more accurate than rats, Mother.” He’s trying to be patient with her. She can see it, though she can’t look him in the eyes too long. He’s cold. Clinical. He looks at everything through glass and that’s all her fault; it’s no wonder he looks at her that way most of all.

“It’s wrong,” she whispers.

He puts three fingers under her glass and urges her to drink. She takes a sip. “Mother,” he says. “I know certain... organizations have skewed your view of things. I know it’s a difficult adjustment for you to make, but I’m sure that, with time, you’ll come to understand everything I’ve accomplished here. I’m sure you’ll be very proud.”

She doesn’t say anything. The Institute, the airport. The synth-man and Seven. Father and Shaun. He looks like Nate, mostly, and a little like her. But more than that, he looks like the man who made her everything she is, the man who ran their jobs and gave their orders and ensured they did what they were told to do. Not physically—Shaun doesn’t have the same nose or lips or eyes, but he looks at her the way a man looks at a feral dog, patient and gentle until all patience and gentleness are lost.

He rises from his seat and puts his hand, only barely, only briefly, on her shoulder. “I have to go by the medical wing, Mother, but why don’t you stop by the Robotics Division? I’m sure that will help you put things in perspective.”

“Shaun, I don’t—”

“It’s alright, Mother. I know it’s hard for you. But I believe in you.”

And he leaves.

She doesn’t move from her place on the couch. She doesn’t drink her water. She just sits and waits for something else to happen, for the world—for this _place_ —to fade away into something better, or even something worse. Just not this.

“Ma’am?”

It’s the synth-man. She hadn’t heard the door open, hadn’t heard him walk across the room. If this were _before,_ she’d have been killed. If this were the wastes, she’d have been killed. She might prefer that right now, to the way the synth-man looks at her.

“Do I have to leave now?” she asks him.

He is hesitant, holding one hand awkwardly in the air before he carefully places it on her shoulder, right where Shaun had. It’s different though—there’s weight behind it. “No, ma’am,” he says. “I was—Is there anything I can do for you, ma’am?”

She shakes her head, shuts her eyes tight and focuses on holding back the bile.

“I will wait outside,” he says, removing his hand when she shifts to rest her head between her knees. “Please do not hesitate to alert me if the need arises.”

She nods, though she doesn’t know if he sees her do it. There’s a gentle padding along the floor as he leaves, a _whoosh_ of air as the door slides open.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

And then another quiet sound as the door closes.


End file.
